


Diggin’ Up Hatchets

by charlesleeray



Category: Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon (2006), Black Christmas (1974), Psycho (1960)
Genre: A bit of gore, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Slow Dancing, Songfic, technically a songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27775534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlesleeray/pseuds/charlesleeray
Summary: After the massacre in Glen Echo, Leslie finds himself on the run, with only one place in mind: The Bates Motel. He finds more than a familiar face.AKA, Leslie knows about the Bates Motel, decides to hide out there, and drives thirty hours only to slow dance with the man in charge.
Relationships: Leslie Vernon/Norman Bates, Norman Bates/Leslie Vernon
Kudos: 1





	Diggin’ Up Hatchets

**Author's Note:**

> hi slasher lovers ♡´･ᴗ･`♡ wrote this in a night! might write more for them, they kinda cute!! Also technically a songfic, but blablabla. the song doesn’t really fit but shhh

_We're diggin’ up hatchets today_   
_And sharpening the blades_   
_In case, a stitch of hope remains_   
_In this hell that we've raised_

“I thought he was dead.”

“In hiding, apparently. Uh, we have a witness—“

”It’s Taylor Gentry, isn’t it? The girl who was interviewing _him_?”

With steady hands, the coroner turned Leslie’s face to hers. Most of the burnt skin had been removed, leaving some of his face red and tender. His left eye was pure red, vessels burst— she opened it with her thumb, studying his now inoperative eye.  
“Mhm. He planned this.”  
“Killed the crew and all the teenagers? The ones I just saw?”  
“Unfortunately.”  
“Alright. Uh, if you’re going to leave—“ she stopped the officer in his tracks, his hands on the doorknob— “could you tell Nurse Keating to get me breakfast? I’ll be here all night.”  
“Sure thing.” Seconds later, the door closed swiftly, leaving her and Leslie alone. Taking one last look at the body, then turning away, she busied herself her gloves and a mask. In her range of hearing, she could sense paper crinkling, wheels turning, hurried footsteps— none of which bothered her. In fact, even when she heard clearer and clearer footsteps, her mind left no doubt that it was Nurse Keating. They stopped, and she faced the door, expecting him to pop in and ask what she had wanted. Something sharp dug into her skin, embedded itself in the flesh below. Pain shot across her body, but she couldn’t manage to scream, or look down— her eyes froze, and her hands only managed to go halfway up before she felt the sickle— that’s it, it was a sickle— pierce through her throat, the taste of iron rushing up and leaking out of her mouth. There were a few seconds she was still capable of screaming, but when it was forcefully pulled out of her windpipe, she collapsed. Leslie Vernon smiled behind her.

_Hey! We're witnessing the waking of the dead_   
_We’re ripping all the wires from our heads_   
_We're pumping all the poison from our veins_   
_And scrubbing out these wicked stains_

Thirty hours later, Leslie was sprawled across the backseat of a stolen car in the vacant motel off Fairville. Rain poured hard and constant against the back window, and he watched with little interest. He was waiting on the eight o’ clock mark, in which he assumed the motel manager would be up, and then he would explain his situation. If all went well, Leslie would have another famous murderer in his books— Norman Bates.  
A dull thud on the window raised him from his thoughts, jolting up to see who the hell was knocking at his car window at— he checked the time— six thirty in the morning. Betwixt the rain and fog, a striking eye was seen clearly.  
“Billy,” Leslie whispered to himself. He scrambled to open the door, hitting Billy in the stomach on the way out.  
“Jesus, kid— Leslie?” His face was still covered, but his voice was deafening evidence. “The Harvest Killer? What in God’s name are you doing in the middle of Arizona?”  
He smiled as Leslie perked up at his title— Billy, who had known him since he was a child, had given it to him in jest, but it had stuck.

“Lenz! Man, it’s been years— you’re not gonna believe what I just did—“  
Ignoring the torrenting rain, Leslie described his massacre excitedly. With a finishing slit throat gesture, he put his hands on his hips and smiled wide. “Now, I’m here in my third phase of the plan.”  
“And is that getting our asses inside so we don’t get permanent soaked in this damn rain?”  
“That’s part of it, yes— I’m staying here until all that’s left of me at Glen Echo is a campfire story. Then I’ll come back on the next harvest moon.” They were walking inside, taking quick strides to ensure at least a part of them turned out dry. Billy opened the office door for him, tracking mud into the carpeted room.  
“Wait,” he said. “Norman’ll be down soon— he probably saw us from the window.”  
Leslie’s heart spun rapidly. “Norman.”  
“Don’t embarrass yourself.” Like he said, a minute later, the door burst open, a anxiously smiling Norman Bates immediately gunning for the desk.  
“The—the rain didn’t do both of you any favors, did it? Hi.” Pulling the guest book out, he finally met eyes with Leslie. “Uh, sign your name here.” Broken from the trance Norman’s eyes had put him in, he grabbed the pen and wrote his name. Leslie Vernon, a spare M scratched out. “You’re new here. Well, that is, I haven’t seen you around before. And your car plate says you’re from Maryland.”

“Hm? Oh. Oh, yeah, I—well, I drove here from Maryland.”

Billy took his leave— Leslie guessed he was in Cabin Two, because of the absence of keys on the wall.

“All the way? That’s a mighty long distance.” Hands hovering over the cabin keys, they quickly moved from Cabin Three’s to Cabin One’s.

“You could say I’m running from something. Ooh, are these candies on your desk—“

“You can have one. Two, if you’d like.” Leslie picked one out, popping it in his mouth. Norman looked back down at the guest book. “Forgot. Home address— or just the town, state— you never really bother checking anymore when it never really changes.”

“Not a lot of people come around?”

“The highway.” Checking Leslie’s addition— it read, quite frantically, Maryland— he nodded and swiped the guest book out of the way. “They moved it.”

“I saw. I wouldn’t think you’d like people here— I mean, it just looks like you’re hiding from something. No offense.” Norman shrugged. “None taken— after all, everyone hides once in a while.” “That’s what I’m doing right now,” Leslie muttered. “Hiding.” Slipping from behind the desk, he looked Leslie up and down. “Cabin One. Walls are paper thin—“

He butt in. “Must not like couples coming in, then.” Norman’s face went transparently red. “Well— uh, walls are paper thin— you can just knock and I’ll hear. If you need anything.” He stuttered out a laugh, obviously embarrassed by his joke. “Here, let me help you find your way.” As they awkwardly shuffled out the door, Norman added, “I do hate couples. They’re better off parking and using their car as a bedroom.”

The cabin was right outside, near the office. Norman pushed open the door, and a small breeze of pine rushed out. The room was slightly bigger than the office, with a bathroom in the back. “Well, there’s lots here to do. There’s the bathroom, the bed, the drawers.” “That is a lot,” Leslie said, faking his exasperated tone and succumbing to the comfort of the washed linen sheets. Norman stood above him, crossing his arms. “Have you had anything to eat?”

“Nope.”

“Would you like breakfast?” The question was answered with silence, and Leslie stared into the ceiling. “Hm. Sure.”

Norman smiled, clapping his hands together. “You can wait here. I’ll, uh, come get you when it’s ready.”  
As soon as he came, Norman was gone, leaving Leslie to revel in what had just happened. He had admired Norman, for his charm and murders, but his heart beat with something more than admiration. It was the same feeling he got when centering out a final girl, the same feeling he had when meeting Taylor for the first time.

He didn’t want to dwell on it, this early in the morning, so he planted his face into the pillow and lulled himself to sleep the best he could.

_We're burying mercy and grace In unmarked shallow graves_

His sleep was dreamless, and once awoken by a soft knock, Leslie believed that the past two hours were just a dream— but the interior of his room proved him wrong.  
“Yeah?”

“Could I come in?” It was Norman.

“Sure. Mhm.” He opened the door, giving Leslie a smile. “Uh, I’ve decided we’d have breakfast in the parlor. It’s much too small in your room—“

“We could just sit on the bed,” he suggested.

“You want to eat in bed?”

“You don’t? But,” he added, “I’m fine. With the parlor idea. Take me there.”

It was a room off the office that was the parlor, decorated with stuffed birds and expensive plates. It was the taxidermy that caught his eye, but he didn’t dare ask about it. “You said you were hiding from something. What’s that?”

“Well, Norman,” Leslie started— Norman just rolled off the tongue in a funny way that made him smile— “I did a good thing, that some people think might be bad. And I fucking killed it, that’s what I did. But now, people are looking for me. So I figure the best way to get out of it is to huddle down in a place like this. I-I mean, the only thing I had back there was a legacy and a slight feeling for the same girl I hurt, but she’ll come back one day. It’s supposed to happen.”

“You think so? People come back, even if they’ve been hurt?”

“For answers.”

“Did you— did you really like her?”

“Well, for one, I had imagined us slow dancing. Have you ever done that?” “Sometimes. Have you?” Leslie laughed, putting his sandwich down. “No. Not ever.” “Well— well, I mean, would you like to?” It was a sudden question— perhaps to keep the conversation going— but it stopped Leslie, mulling it over and staring at the piece of bread that fell off his sandwich.

“Are you asking me to slow dance with you?”

“I just said I’d teach you.”

“Shoot, then.” Norman stood up, taking up the record player a few steps away from him and turning on a old slow song. “Well, first, you’ve got to find a song to dance to. Can’t be too fast, or else it’s just dancing.” Leslie stood up, moving the table out of the way with his foot. “Alright, alright. Then we dance.” “Then we dance,” Norman confirmed, putting his hands in Leslie’s. “Step that way— don’t step on my foot, now—“

Breakfast was forgotten as they danced, a few mishaps with footing barely stopping them. The song came to a close with Norman’s head in Leslie’s shoulders, their chests heaving, and a small snickering from the doorway. Leslie immediately jolted up. “BILLY!” “Was I not invited? I heard the music— figured something was going on—“ Norman sat down, attempting to hide what they had just been doing. “It’s— it’s breakfast,” he explained.

“It’s breakfast alright,” Billy retorted, leaving them to stand in the parlor, their hands still warm from one another’s.

_Today, the piper must be paid_

_For the tune that he played_


End file.
